On Pine

Dec. 9, 2006 & Dec. 9, 2008

I. The Smell of Pine

the faces we wear, well, 
I’m doing the laundry as we speak
and there’s my reflection in the glass
of the public dryer,
eight minutes for a quarter,
over and over everything spins.

when it comes to certainty,
I reason, for you and me: 
we’re a few quarters short, 
meaning will be draped in the dampness
of a cycle not complete.

so what we do have is the uncertain,
distance, an interest that’s mutual,
and maybe our faces –
those reserved and recently discovered,
the faces that whisper and moan,
the ones that hide when eyes divert,
the ones that smile when eyes lock,
and they all belong to the other.

II. Splitting Pine

I’ve been through tougher days
and what do I even mean by that
because you’ll visit there too in time
but I guess I’m saying
this vibration is familiar
and not so easy.

humming along is what I usually do
it’s what I enjoy
what I’m good at
it’s even on my resume
and see what you can do too?

but there’s no harmony 
as we follow different verses
to these sing along tunes
our choice is to care or not,
to focus on the beat.

III. Burning Pine

Cold fried chicken two days post fry

telephone calls unanswered
messages with semi-lies
and light trickles into this cave
like a therapy 
like an old friend dropping by.

And so I jumped a jet
and again we met
this time at your college,
and in the hills of Carolina forest
we hiked and camped
and cooked and cried
and fucked and talked
and laughed and sighed.

IV. Polishing Pine

Sometimes, I’m told, all you need is luck,
or love, or moxie, or a good book… 
but what about a good friend?
You see trees fall from time to time
and sometimes they fall on people
who are inevitably someone’s good friend,
and what are we left with then,
besides fresh lumber
and taunting, wonderful memories.

Dec. 9, 2008

V. The Fuel of Pine (the worst kind)

I can’t believe I’m still here:
that’s what I’ve said forty times over,
and it’s anger, and desire, and 
a song on repeat whose lyrics speak
to this funeral of a forest,
burning, a great fire in my night.

We evacuate, at your command.

What will be left of our pines? 
Will anything grow here again?